Varri Skynner learned the language of survival long before she ever learned Common. Raised on the fringes of Neverwinter Wood during the wars that scarred the North, she grew up knowing the weight of steel, the sound of distant screams, and the truth that some beasts wear fur and some walk on two legs. By the time she reached adulthood, she was faster than the wolves that hunted her and angrier than the soldiers who burned her home. War shaped her first. The forest shaped her second. Everything since has simply refined the edges. When the chaos following the eruption of Mount Hotenow left Neverwinter desperate for skilled hunters, Varri returned to the city not as a refugee but as a force of nature. She founded Skynner’s Gatherers—a leather-hunting crew known for their discipline, precision, and unnerving silence when stalking prey. They harvest ethically, kill swiftly, and waste nothing. Every cut is purposeful; every trophy has meaning. Her shop sits on Hunter’s Row, built from timber she felled herself and reinforced with bone plates from creatures most people only hear about in panicked tavern stories. The interior smells of tanned hide, sharpened steel, and the wild wind that follows Varri everywhere she goes. Racks of armor line the walls—sturdy pieces stitched with beast sinew, hardened with alchemical oils, and inscribed with protective runes that glow faintly in moonlight. Varri’s clientele ranges from hardened rangers to wide-eyed adventurers seeking their first real protection. She fits each one personally, measuring not just their size but their stance, their balance, and the particular flavor of fear they carry. Armor forged by Varri does not simply protect the wearer—it teaches them how to survive. The Gatherers who work under her are a mismatched family of outcasts and veterans: former scouts, wounded soldiers, forest nomads, and people few others were willing to trust. Varri gave them purpose; in return, they gave her loyalty that borders on reverence. Together, they roam from the Neverwinter Wood to the foothills of the Crags, tracking beasts twisted by lingering magic and ensuring they never threaten the city’s borders. Rumors cling to Varri like the smell of pine resin. Some say she once slew a corrupted dire bear with her bare hands. Others claim she carries a wound that never fully healed, a reminder of a monstrous thing she refuses to name. A few whisper she has a pact with something ancient in the Wood—a guardian, a spirit, or perhaps her own past wearing a different face. Varri never confirms or denies any of it. She simply sharpens her knives, checks her bowstring, and steps back into the wild. Her armor is prized not only because it is strong, but because it is honest—crafted by someone who has faced the dark and lived. And in a city still rebuilding itself from ruin, that honesty is worth more than gold.